


i'm no soldier, but you're no saint (laughing with bloody lips)

by girl0nfire



Series: we burn in dreams [4]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: And Now For Something Completely Different, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Civil War (Marvel), HELP I CAN'T STOP HURTING THEM, M/M, POV Multiple, Superhusbands, oh no why, with additional cameos by the Marvel universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The human side of the Civil War.  Words fail them, and war makes animals of them all in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm no soldier, but you're no saint (laughing with bloody lips)

**Author's Note:**

> I remixed the timeline of the comics a bit, and you'll see MCU bits in here as well.

There are words between you two, now, and you’re not very good at them but then again, you never really were. You’ve got that jagged-edged Brooklyn ineloquence that trips your words around your mouth, rolling them across your tongue like marbles until they fall out of your mouth out-of-order.

Words aren’t your strongest suit, but they’ve always been Tony’s, and that’s okay because you’re more of a man of action, anyway. And the two of you, you manage, taking a little time to speak and a lot more time making up for what you can’t quite say.

It’s easy, the two of you. You fight and you hide, but you’ve never been so sure before, never slept wrapped up in a set of arms you weren’t afraid would be gone the next morning. And he wakes you with his words, just like he sends you to sleep, the syllables fluttering in the air between your faces before he crushes them against your lips, soft sounds and long vowels caught between you, breathless.

And you trust him with your words. You trust him to know what needs to be said, and when, and even when he manages to cross the signals you can’t help but smile fondly, because the fact that he’s trying _so hard_ is enough. 

Slowly, you’ve written a new language with him, a new set of sounds made up of two voices, his echoing yours in harmony, in agreement. Resonant.

That is, until the day that he says, “Yes” when you say “No.”

+

You sit at the head of a long table, listening in the most patient way you can (which is to say, incredibly impatiently). Even when you were CEO your board meetings were never this long or this serious, and the pairs of bespectacled eyes staring back at you dare you to challenge them.

They throw around words like _safety_ and _containment_ and _registration_ , staring down their long noses at you like they’re supposed to mean something. Like the mention of the Right Thing is enough to convince Tony Stark to fight their fight.

Their patrician features and reptilian smiles make something hum beneath your skin, some blue-hot sensation that seems to travel deeper into your body with each heartbeat. They’re power personified, and you never though you’d be working for the government again. But you wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to be on the side of the angels. What it _would_ be like to do the Right Thing.

And you think about Peter, Steve, Hank, Sue and Johnny and Reed, and everyone who hasn’t had the luck that you’ve had. Who hasn’t been able to live a real-deal double life, billionaire genius and titanium-alloy nuclear deterrent. Who has had to spend as much time hiding as you’ve spent rubbing it in, making announcements and taking test flights in active war zones. Suiting up drunk and ending an innocent man’s life.

It’s not just Steve’s unmasked face you’re seeing when you stand up. Pushing your creaking chair back from the table, you clear your throat and you tell them, “I will.”

+

Maria is looking at you with a dark glint in her eye, pointing her finger sharp at your chest.

You spit out the “No” before she’s finished her thought, and you take a few of her agents down, too, just to drive your point a little further home.  
There is _no way_ that you’ll be used as anyone’s symbol again; that you’ll let the government fill your mouth with what’s-good-for-some-is-good-for-all lies and parade you around like an obedient performer. 

You’ve always been the little guy, always the underdog, even when they shot you full of liquid glory and put you on display. And you’re not going to stop being him, now; you have people to protect, not just their privacy and their families but their _lives_ , and you’re not about to abandon that conviction in the face of false patriotism and cowardice. 

If they want to give up liberty for security, then they don’t deserve either. And you’re not going to be the one telling your friends to give themselves up.

If that makes you a villain, so be it. You’ve seen enough of war to know that everyone becomes one, eventually.

+

It’s Sunday mornings and Tuesday midnights with the two of you. Keeping the planet safe and New York in one piece takes up most of your time, but when you’re not pulling alien ships out of the sky, you find yourself a home with Steve. Coffee, take-out, fighting over the remote, doing dishes at three-o’clock in the morning because it’s the first time you’ve both been out of your suits in a week, and really, you’re way past giving a damn about the time.

He’s like the sun, bright and undeniable, chasing away every shadow and replacing it with warmth. Even you, for all your well-worn charms, can’t seem to keep up with him. He’s always a step ahead, it seems, knowing when you’re going to fuck up so he can be there to catch you, ready with a hand up and no trace of an _I told you so_ and somehow, he’s the first person you’re certain will always be able to render you speechless.

Which is a shame, because you have novels of words for him and about him, words to wrap around him when your arms can’t, things like _yes_ and _safe_ and _I promise_ and _finally_. So you do what you can; you try to tell him what you’re thinking, you try your hardest to let him in, and it’s like ripping the stitches from a wound. You tear yourself apart and bleed, all your secrets spilling from your body and you’re lightheaded, hoping that he’s not scared, but fascinated.

And when clear blue eyes meet yours on those Sunday mornings, blond hair spread over the pillow, you can’t help but babble. You press your words against his neck, smear them lazily across his cheeks and watch them flit along the bridge of his nose, the curl of his eyelashes. You run out of things to say and you keep at it anyway, wearing out _I love you_ until it’s stripped down to syllables and sounds and breath before you chase his answer back into his mouth.

This is how the language of the two of you is learned.

+

You clench your fist around the straps of your shield, and you can hear the squeak of leather against leather because it’s too quiet. There’s no sound but your pulse in your ears and the other’s short breaths, the calm before a storm. Everywhere is a battlefield now, and every day you wake up feeling more like you did the last time, back in the trenches and waiting for the rain to come.

Tony’s approaching, flanked by your colleagues, and it hits you, then. This is war. This is war, and everyone is choosing their sides and you never once thought for a _second_ that he wouldn’t be on yours.

He’s hunched, just a bit, and you only notice because you know the armor almost as well as you know his body. The faceplate’s up and you can see the lines of anger and exhaustion on his face, and you wonder where he’s been sleeping. _If_ he’s been sleeping.

You certainly haven’t.

Adjusting the shield again, you take a step toward him and you swear the device in your palm is pulling you down, a dead weight pulling you toward the ground and away from _him_ and maybe you’re not the warrior you thought you were. You didn’t think you’d ever fight for _anything_ as hard as you fought for him, for the both of you, but when you look around at the stony faces and bared teeth, you think you may just have found the one thing that could tear you two apart.

Everything about him is recognizable to you; you could let your eyes fall closed and draw him from memory, every hinge of the suit and every graying hair at his temples, and you hate yourself then. 

You hate yourself for knowing him so well, for reading him like a book – knowing just how he’ll react, and taking advantage of it. You hate that this is what has become of the two of you, that somehow your language died, somehow communications broke down. You hate SHIELD and you hate the government for putting you all into this mess, pitting you against each other like exterminators, gladiators, to pick each other off until only the obedient remained.

Mostly, you hate that you couldn’t be selfish, just this once. That you had to push back, that you had to be the hero. That you had to be the one to stand up to him.

Weighing the device in your palm, you hope in the back of your mind, in the part that’s still horrified at what you’re preparing to do, that maybe one day he’ll forgive you for this.

That maybe one day you’ll be able to forgive yourself. 

But really, war makes animals of everyone in the end, and you’re still not sure what you thought made you exempt. 

You reach out a hand to him; it's a movement you’ve made a thousand times before and you have to close your eyes against the cheapness of it. You take a moment to be grateful that you can’t feel the warmth of his skin through layers of titanium and leather, because you’re sure one touch would bring your façade down in an instant.  
He slides the faceplate back down, and you’re glad of it. It’s easier to betray Iron Man, easier to imagine that you’re fighting a machine. And you hate yourself for that, too.

Iron Man takes your hand to shake it, and you hear the armor deactivate because you can’t watch. You open your eyes in time to see his fist launching toward your face.

Words have failed you both, now. This is all there is left.

+

You can’t help but think of the hours you’ve spent in the gym together, sparring and training and laughing, as you smash the gauntlets against his too-red shield and fire the repulsors again. He’s good, he’s always good, and you both have been at this for way too long for anyone to call it off now.

The problem with having had him teach you is that he knows all your weaknesses, now; he can call all your bluffs, knows which side you favor for a feint and even wrapped in the armor you’re no match for him. The thing he’s not counting on, that _you’re_ not counting on, is how desperate you are. Both of you.

It goes to the ground, and you’re glad that the HUD makes everything seem surreal because the reality of what you’re doing is something you can’t acknowledge. You’re putting every ounce of power you have into your fists, Steve’s uniform falling to shreds in your hands and it’s not until he raises the shield again that you realize that you’ve made a fatal error in your calculations.

Because Tony Stark doesn’t _do_ the Right Thing. Not without consequences.

And here they come, in the form of his shield aimed at your head, and your back hits the ground before you realize you’re looking up at him through what’s left of the faceplate. You lift an arm to brush the shards of metal and glass away from your face, but the joints whine as they’re moved, so you give up. You see stars, then, looking up at Steve, the hard blue of his eyes a color you haven’t seen there yet, and you’re _sure_ that you’ve seen every shade of blue he had.

Everything flickers, short-sharp like one of the old film reels he likes, and you’re struck with how ridiculous all of this is. _You_ , leading troops like a soldier into a war that you had no business starting. The great Iron Man calling troops to battle, working the politics like pieces of a puzzle and manipulating circumstances to prove your point. It’s insane. You’ve spent your _whole life_ pushing people away, refusing to follow orders, and the one goddamned time you decide to take a chance, you’re on your back in Times Square coughing up blood before you even know how fucked you are.

And it’s crazy, it really is, because you’re looking at Steve with that harsh darkness etched in his face and all you want do is laugh.

So you do. Cold, wheezing laugher that bubbles out around the blood on your lips and you can’t be sure that it isn’t sobs. You’ve ruined everything, managed to take the only good thing you ever had in your life and break it apart in your hands, and for _what_?

Steve’s face swims back into focus again, and you force yourself to ignore the glint of blond that’s forced its way out of the front of the cowl and the tears you see clumping among his eyelashes. This isn’t about you, anymore. You don’t get to want anything; you don’t get to want him.

You get the ending that all villains deserve. Wetting your lips, you taste blood and you grit out, “Finish it.”

+

This is the part where you’re supposed to admit you were wrong, you guess. You still haven’t changed out of your shredded uniform, and you can’t take your eyes off the blood spattering the star long enough to care.

He’s here, now, the rough _clink_ of the armor echoing down the hallway, and you can’t think of a single thing to say to him. You’re right back where you started, the words tangling up in your throat, because he’s _always_ been there to say what you couldn’t and without that, you’re not sure what either of you can do.

As he turns to face you, the dull glow of the energy bars keeping you inside the cell reflect off the suit and give him an almost dead-white pall. He’s Iron Man, now, he’s not Tony, not anymore – not the man that you’ve spent years taking apart and putting back together, not the man you trusted above all to watch your back like you watched his.

The words between you are gone, now, obliterated by heat and force and miscommunication, and it hurts like a repulsor to the chest, like a blow to the head with your shield. Because all you want in the world is to apologize to _Tony_ and yet Iron Man is here, ready to take your confession.

The anger that’s been slowly roiling beneath the grief peaks and you glare out, past the bars, past your own anguished face reflected back at you from the dirty faceplate. There are answers you want, things you need to say, but just like every time, the words trip over themselves, magnified and twisted by your rage until you’re shouting without meaning to.

“Who made you the moral compass? What could you _possibly_ have to say for yourself?”

Of course there’s no response, not from the impassive metal mask staring back. And again, you’re glad for a moment that you’ve stopped believing this is Tony, it makes it easier to say what you just can’t stop from coming out of your mouth.

“This is how you really are, isn’t it? Conniving, cruel when it suits you – you don’t work for anyone but yourself, for whatever you think is best. You think you can do exactly what you want with no consequences. That you know _better_. God, you’re so _selfish_. Even when you’re trying to be noble you’re selfish.”

Here, with nothing but silence and the crackle of the bars between you, you look up at him to see your own tears reflected back at you. You can’t help but wonder how this happened. How you managed to tie yourself so tightly to this man when you always knew that this would happen. How you managed to forge a bond with someone who always seemed so ready to run, so ready to turn his back on you. You think back to every brush of lips, every lazy Tuesday night and it burns you to think of how much of that was just artifice. Because really, how can you not be sure that he wasn’t _always_ looking out only for himself?

If he’s so willing to leave you here to rot, so willing to declare a victory over everything you stand for, then he’s not the man you knew at all. Not the man who spoke to you in the hushed tones of the language you built, and certainly not the man you would have died to protect. This man doesn’t deserve that. Not anymore.

“I hope that you’re happy, now. Now that you’ve brought this destruction down on us, on _all_ of us… there’s blood on your hands. Goliath’s, and Johnny’s, and Peter’s. You sold us all out to save your own ass, and told yourself that you were doing what was best for all of us.”

You reach up to scrub a hand across your forehead, willing away the ache gathering in your temples and steeling yourself for what you want to ask next. 

“Are you happy, now? _Was it worth it_?”

+

You’re watching him march up the courthouse steps, his back turned to you like it has been for weeks now, and you see the blood before your ears register the sound of a gunshot.

+

Laid out on the steps of the courthouse with the short remainder of your life pulsing out of your throat, you think to yourself _maybe it’s better, this way_.

You look for his face in the crowd and hope against hope that he isn’t here to see this.

+

He’s smaller, this way.

But this isn’t Steve, not really, not like this: still, cold, gray.

Steve is… _was_ color personified; a riot of it, gold and pink and _red-white-blue_ , and all of it moves like a kaleidoscope whenever you close your eyes. He was like the sun, bright and uncontainable, except he let you try, let you try to slip your arms around light itself and keep it tied to you.

What happened? How did you convince yourself to throw him away for _this_? You gave up freedom, ripped it out of other’s hands and replaced it with compromise, with death and destruction and emptiness.

And now, looking down over his body, you find yourself at a loss for words to even give him the explanation he deserves. He’s made you speechless again.

Everything you want to say burns in the back of your throat, bile and grief drowning the words and your vision burns blue at the edges and you hope to be consumed. You wish that it was as easy as laying down next to him, curling up like you’ve done so many times and going with him.

You wish that it was you there on the table, stone-still and stripped of all the colors that make you up.

You spent so long babbling, filling all the space between you with words, telling him everything in every way, but the one time you have something important you want to say you can’t seem to force it out.

“There’s one thing I should have told you. But now…”

You hear the wet hitch in your words and you don’t even bother to stop the tears that escape. You’re content to fall apart at the seams, breaking to pieces and never bothering to fix it, because without him to hold you together there’s no reason to try.

You can’t take your eyes off of his face, and the paleness of it settles in among the shrapnel in your chest with the brightest twinge of pain.

“But now… _Steve_ , I can’t.”

There are so many things you want to say to him, things you never had a chance to and things you’ve said a million times, _I’m sorry_ and _I love you_ and _I wish it was me_ , but what finally claws its way past the bile in your throat is the truth you’ve damned yourself with.

“It wasn’t worth it.”


End file.
